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November 13, 2014

She loves nail paints
She loves wine
She believes in holy saints,
O' she's just too fine.
Every time I see her
I see ageless beauty
Every time i hug her

Fades all sad mysteries
How I wonder
If pens and papers' knowledge had she be
busy might have been
In office like a Queen bee.
I shall perish to live
Rest in her arm
I wish to sleep
forever in her womb so warm
I love you Ama
You be my first love
Of all that you gave
Of all that you are,
This is all I have,
You are my forever shining star.
How I wander,
with the lonely hands of time
sleepless in wander
To care you
To give you
All you want
All you wanted.
To see you grow old
Forever next to me
O', my most valued gold.

There showered happiness in the world,
angels danced in glory, when you were born.

I’ve read of him

I’ve heard of him

I’ve seen him from far

A kind king to all hearts

All kings.

How I always slept and woke

In my little world next to him.

I always wanted to be him

With time only to grow

For such a dream

Only a beautiful dream I shall always know.

Thou
were seventeen

To be our sire, our king,

Young enough, the world mayn’t have ever
seen.

Ere, thou could even feel

The charm of youth

Thou made us grow in peace.

Gratitude sire, gratitude my handsome
king.

Thee, my fair countrymen

And me myself,

Rise in gratitude, rise in glory

Thou art happy ‘cause of thy king

Because of his selfless story

And his loss of youthful spring.

Rise in happiness, rise in peace,

To thank our Lord, our almighty king.

Thou art my
Simba

Thou art my Lion
King

Thou art my
emperor forever

For thou art the
reason our nation sing.

I pray,

Thou shall roar
forever in pride

And never
dismay.

Sixty has come,

Seventy and million years
are yet to be peaceful

For thou my king, shall forever rule in all
hearts.

King of hearts, king of kings,

I salute thee, and rise forever in thy name,

I shall perish forever to be born to live for
the king same.

Thank you your
majesty

Thank you almighty.

Long live peace
and prosperity,

Long live my
king,

Jigme Singye
Wangchuck.

This I write to
celebrate the birthday of our fourth king who will be sixty this year. I have
always adored him more than anyone in the world. He is my icon, inspiration and
father to all the nations. I write this as a tribute to his youthful days, he
couldn’t enjoy letting us enjoy. I write this to celebrate for having no king
like him ever in history. I write this to rejoice for his good days he could
live after his youth, and good days that are yet to come. I write this as a
grateful citizen among many, I write this to pray God for his well being, to
thank god for having him for us. Happy Sixtieth birthday your majesty.

THIS IS A STORY I HAVE WRITTEN ABOUT A BOY NAMED GYATSHO, AND OF COURSE HIS FAMILY. IT IS ABOUT FAMILY, LOVE AND ALL THAT YOU'LL KNOW AS YOU GO ON READING. DO ENJOY...

“I’m sorry”.

A mute shivering body drenched in red laid
next to him. His hands shaking like the words he just uttered in turmoil. In a
bit of distance that could have barely made ten steps stood a woman who calmed
him with a blind mouth, and whose presence comforted his fear. Near her was a
garden shovel. She stood there gazing at him in tears,and a long piece of cloth
on her neck as if a thick thread worn like a like thin scarf, which might have
been the edge piece of her dress that was torn from the bottom. In an illusion
of darkness and red hands, fear and the random thoughts in mind, the woman
started blurring in his eyes and in a while everything went dark.

“Gyatsho!Gyatsho!” a hastening ApDrukpa
shook his sleeping son, “wake up! You are already late for school and me, for
the court”. It was a Sunny Monday morning and the environment at the villa was
quiet, unlike usual. GyatshoDrukpa, 17, the son of the richest man in the
country turned left to see a plate of cheese sandwich and a steaming mug of
suja. On the left beeped his alarm on snooze for the fourth time. He left the
both, and got ready for school. His apa was there down blowing honks in the
car.

“Get inside man. We are already late” ApDrukpa
unlocked the car doors. Gyatsho opened the right door and went in followed by
his mother inside, “Yeah apa. I’m sorry I’m late”. His mother patted his
shoulder and closed her eyes to lean back to rest until school. His father pops
up in a soft voice;

“Well, if you say so. That’s the spirit
though. Work hard okay? After all, The Drukpas’ heir should be strong enough to
give in things and face problems, and of course, intelligent, like you are.”

Gyatsho, although sick of his father’s
usual ‘heir & business’ stories, he was also confused why his parents had
no words to exchange. “Here you go study well”, waved a faintly smiling father.
Gyatsho’s mother walked him to school, and she said she would wait for lunch.
He was happy that his mother came along leaving her garden back. He kissed her
on her fair skinned cold forehead only to see her for lunch.

Gyatsho walked in the class like a usual
gentleman. The little world around him smiled him, consoling smiles everywhere.
He smiled them back. Sun beams wrestled on the window pane, right at his seat.
He looked out of the glass, and saw his mother throughout the morning at the
fountain on the other side of the glass playing with the fishes in the pond.
“Ting tingting”, the bell jangled for lunch and he rushed out with his lunchbox
at the park. He sat next to her and she smiled at him, “My son, grow up to be a
charming man. Grow up to be kind and honest. Be selfless and generous to all”.
She smiled at him again and watched him eating like a kid, smiling back to her
as if he understood all that she said, although confused. “Ting tingting”,
jangled the bell again. Gyatsho walked back to class seeing the same smiles
again. He sat next to the window and saw his mother doing the same again. He
smiled at himself seeing how beautiful his mother was, how kind she was.

School got over. It was cold outside and
all the parents had come to pick their children, and when all left, a soft
voice called Gyatsho, “let’s walk home. Apa must be busy”. He walked back
holding his mother’s hand. They reached their home. Ap Drukpa was coming from
the doorsteps towards his car, when Gyatsho rushed to him before he could leave
for school.

“Oh, you are here. I’m so sorry son. I
was really busy today. Even the driver was out of sight. I’ve got hearing
tomorrow again. So you better hurry and wake up early tomorrow for school, so
that the driver leaves you to school” Said a hasty father leaving some cash in
his hands, “…and don’t wait up for me I may be late”. He drove away. Gyatsho
turned back to see his mother in the garden. He rushed towards her and saw her
weeding in her rose garden, on a plant that was already dead and wilted in the
bed of fresh red roses. Gyatsho although confused seeing her do that, ignored
it and asked her, ‘Have you talked to Apa?”. She turned to him and looked up
with a cold smile, “No. Your apa and I had a fight. A bad fight indeed…” Before
she could even complete, his head started to ache. His mother took him to his
room. She laid him on is bed and the servant brought him some dinner in. she
asked if he was alright and left the room. Gyatsho’s mother raised her hand and
led it to his head and started making crawls, spins and whirls, singing a soft
song leading him to sleep. The next day, he woke up and found his mother wasn’t
there. He stood up and raised his curtains to welcome the golden beams of the
morning star, and saw his mother again in her garden feeding the same dead
rose. She was wearing the same dress again.

He had his breakfast and didn’t want to
bother his mother. He got ready for class, and got inside the car, and suddenly
his mother followed him again. She slept in calm till his school. The same
thing happened like the day before, he went to class, the confusing smiles, and
seeing his mother near the fountain, except for the driver has come to pick them
up, who turned back to check on what he was blabbering about.

On reaching home, ApDrukpa wasn’t there
at home. He was out busy with his lawyer for the final hearing for tomorrow.
Gyatsho’s mother, on reaching home, rushed to the garden again. Gyatsho was
confused to see her again with the dead rose amongst all the living beautiful
roses. He called her aloud, “Ama! I’m sleeping. Goodnight. I love you.” She
waved him back. He stretched his eyes from his room. His mother was really
working hard on the dark rose. He went to sleep and woke the next day, and saw
from the same window, to see her doing the same work in the garden she was
doing the night before. She was wearing the same dress again.

Gyatsho prepared for school and the same
happened again. This time on reaching home, Gyatsho’s father was waiting for
him at the door. He rushed towards the car and hugged his son as the door flung
open.

“I’m so happy today my son.” Cried
ApDrukpa in joy.

“But what happened?” asked an unaware
son to his father.

“I won the case.”

“The case at the court?” and as he said
these his eyes caught his mother running towards the garden again and weeding
the dead rose.

“Yes. The case at the court. I’ll be
right back with my keys. We’ll have dinner outside tonight son.” Ap Drukpa
rushed inside in joy, when Gyatsho rushed towards his mother at the garden. There
was the same pain in his head like the night before again, as if something bad
was going to happen. He was feeling apprehensive while walking towards his
mother this time. He sat down next to her and started helping her. He tried to
avoid his headache, and went on until, “Tock!” hit his fingers in the soil. He
penetrated his hand in the soil, out got uprooted the plant and came a small
brown box in his hand. He looked up to see her expression and saw she wasn’t
there. He wondered where had she been, and then opened the box. He saw a small
chit and opened it.

“Dear hubby…” it read. He went on to go
on with something like his mother’s handwriting, “…how life has brought us to a
stand we never imagined. It’s been 21 years of our marriage and you didn’t even
think of our only son before doing this. What hurts me most is how you
convinced him to leave my side when it was you who had an affair. How much I
loved you and dreamt of days to grow old and see the world together. I wonder
what Gyatsho must have had to say to his helpless mother if you hadn’t dragged
him out tonight before you even gave me a chance to say. You humiliated me in
front of my child. You could have given him to me at least. I didn’t ask you
anything more than that, but you only wanted an heir. You never loved me. I was
sure the amaent you wanted to leave me that I won’t be wanting to be your side
anymore, but the amaent you took away my son, I was shattered and there is no
reason for me to live anymore. In these years if you have ever loved me, do me
a favor. Up bring him to be a charming man. Let himbe kind and honest, selfless
and generous to all, unlike you…please. Thank you for all your love and tell my
son his mother was never wrong.”

There was a sudden throb in his heart, a
heartache so painful and hammer on his head when he finally read, “Wangmo” at
the end.

Three days back, on Sunday night,
WangmoDrukpa committed suicide with the cloth she tore from her dress when her
husband accused her for a false affair to hide his extra marital affair. She
hung herself in her room. She was beaten and was denied to have her son after
divorce. To avoid her contact with her son before she convinces him her
innocence, ApDrukpa takes him out of the house and returns late night.

Gyatsho’s head started to burst, and
scary pictures came to his mind. He recalled that night of her unfair death. He
was getting mad in the garden, reflecting his mother hung strangulated in her
room that night. He couldn’t find her anywhere around anymore. He burst in
tears and pain, loss and grief. His father came rushing after hearing him loud.
Ap Drukpa saw the letter and the box in his hand. Gyatsho was already out of
his mind. He seemed like a beast in the rose garden.

“Gyatsho…”

Before he could even utter another word,
Gyatsho dropped the box and the letter and picked up the shovel which was the
nearest he could see.

“Gyatsho! Gyatsho! Open your eyes.”,
again came the illusions and blurring of his sight but this time it was bright.
He saw his father with his head bandaged, sitting behind a person who seemed
like a doctor. To be precise, he was a hypnotist, at the end when he said,
“Gyatsho, you are sick. You have Schizophrenia.”

June 03, 2014

´According
to MacEdward Leach (SDFML 1984:401-402), “Folklore is the generic
term designate the customs, beliefs, traditions, tales, magical practices.
Proverbs, songs etc.,; Tales have been taken over by movies and animations today. But, on the other side of the region where there are no buildings and fresh green grasses breathe, orature- an art of passing down tales from word to mouth is practiced.

The first man to narrate. Amazing man indeed!

Folk literature is a module or subject we learn here in Sherubtse, Kanglung. It is about discovering and learning about old stuffs like, Folktales and folk materials. It might sound antique at first but it is not as the course proceeds. The class begins with defining and understanding terms like, Folklore, folkloristics, etc which are also the key words of this subject. When these get over, we A.K Ramanujan and our very own Aum Kunzang Choden with their beautiful works on collections of folktales. We try to relate culture and traditions, customs and beliefs of different countries through their tales.

In this, we also went for filed studies collecting folk materials and tales. Now, when I say folk materials here, keeping in mind that folk has been fading in urban regions and is growing in rural areas, we decided to go and visit villages. It's about old songs and stories that for now we have not seen documented anywhere yet. It is also about legends and myths as told or narrated by the people we go and meet. These stories, legends, myths and songs mean a lot to us because, these inform us about our own culture and tradition. Not only that, these take us back to our own people but in a previous generation, in some way or the other.

Narration of old days

These subject helps us connect ourselves with our own culture and custom in a detailed way. It not only helps us with our own module, but asking older people to narrate, makes us realize that there are unheard people who wants to be listened to and who has observed the transition in a better way. They have a lot to say, and a lot to inform.

There are a lot to be told
in this big piece of land. There are people waiting to tell you stories,
stories of how life would have been without these comforts of advancement,
stories of world before this. They have a narration to narrate not about batman
or superman, but real warrior, real heroes who saved countries and lives

His only entertainment is to listen to his grandma narrate him stories.